


Without You I Would Be Utterly Bored

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Falling for each other, M/M, Med Student John, Phone Sex, Skype Sex, Slightly older Sherlock, client Sherlock, sexline worker john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:42:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is working a sex phone line to make a little money while he goes to med school. When a handsome older man calls up and only wants to talk about crime scenes and mysteries he's completely confused.</p><p>Sherlock doesn't mean to fall for John. He really doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts).



It was the only job he could get that would work with his schedule. It was a paycheck. He got to do it from home and most of he time he was able to do other things, like clean the flat and prepare for finals, while he worked. It was a paycheck.

He told himself that every night before he clocked in but it never helped. He still felt a bit guilty the first time he got a call for the night. The guilt was about not being bothered. Not being bothered that men would get off to what he said. Not being bothered that he was using his voice to elicit such a response. Somehow he felt he was lying to them, but that was bollocks.

Mostly it was creepy men who were horribly lonely due to things John didn't need to know about, or men who didn't seem so creepy that turned that way when he pretended to unzip his denims.

It was fantasy. That's what it all boiled down to. He was someone's fantasy.  
_____

That night he picked up his laptop and turned it on. He was set to Skype with some clients that night. Sometimes he'd watch hem strip and get themselves off, sometimes they'd remain fully clothed. Either way he got paid.

It was all run through a company so he didn't get paid more to do extras, no tips or things like that, and he always knew ahead of time what was expected of him. That was why he was confused when he logged in and found that his first client only wanted to talk. Seemed rather pointless to do it over video if he only wanted to talk.

He shrugged and rang the man.

The first few seconds were shaky, a laptop being settled on a table and two huge hands playing with the keys. When the man, and quite handsome older man, pulled the screen down John was surprised to see him fully clothed, shoes and all. He lay back on the sofa and held his fingers to his lips in the facsimile of a prayer.

"Talk," he said.

John cleared his throat, not sure what the hell he was supposed to do and quite glad at the moment that the video was one way as he knew he had a flush creeping up his neck. "Tell me what you like."

"Mostly murder," the man replied, "but I suppose suicide isn't too bad."

John's stomach sank and he straightened up in his seat.

"Look, I don't know who you spoke to but I'm not sure I'm willing to pretend I'm being murdered-" John began.

"Oh, no, not sexually," the man replied with a dismissive shake of his hand. "Your profile says you're a med student. I'm a consulting detective. I need your opinion on a few cases."

"My opinion?" John asked, flabbergasted.

"You're in year three so I don't think you'll be out of your depth," the man replied. "I'm Sherlock by the way, Sherlock Holmes. Shall we start?"

_____

It was the third month he'd had Sherlock as a bi-weekly client. They'd gone over waterlogged bodies and bruise identification and as much as John felt he should decline the call as it wasn't really his specialty, at least at work, he didn't. He didn't decline because there was something fascinating about the man. Something about the way his brain worked that always made John's heart beat a bit faster. He clicked the call button and sat back.

Sherlock was at his kitchen table, which was cluttered almost beyond repair, doing something involving graduated cylinders and a Bunsen burner. He pulled his goggles back on and slipped a glove over one long hand before speaking.

"I have you for two hours tonight, correct?" He asked quickly.

"Yes," John purred. "As usual."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, "of course, as always I'm more concerned with your mind than your supposed sexual prowess."

"That's insulting," John shot back without thinking.

At that Sherlock stilled, halfway done picking up his instruments, and looked at the computer screen. John forgot for a moment that he couldn't be seen and sat up straight.

"Would you rather I tell you my fantasies? Tell you how I like to get off?" Sherlock said bitingly.

"No, it's just, well, I'm pretty good at my job," John said, scrambling for an explanation. 

"Your JOB, yes," Sherlock said with a small smirk.

"You don't need to be a prick about it, you know," John said quickly. "Just because you're not interested in me doesn't mean you have to act like I couldn't be good at it. I have a lode of happy clients besides you."

"Who said I wasn't interested in you?" Sherlock asked softly, slipping the second glove on and looking away from the laptop.

"You seem to think I'm a joke," John replied angrily. "And you're being bloody dismissive."

"I didn't mean to insult you. Well, I did but I didn't mean for you to notice," Sherlock said nervously.

"How's that supposed to make me feel better?" John asked.

"It was honest. I was told that honesty is always kinder," Sherlock said, glancing for a second back and seeming to look right into John's soul.

"Whoever said that was full of shit," John replied with an uneasy chuckle.

"Well, my brother is rather stupid," Sherlock said strangely.

John sighed and Sherlock smirked and they easily moved on to talking about burn victims. John thought the beginning of the conversation was forgotten.

_____

John got a message on the phone three hours later saying Sherlock had made another appointment with him. For that bloody hour. He set down his Maths book and shook his head.

Maybe they'd found the killer. Maybe Sherlock had gone and hurt himself and wanted medical attention without going to A&E. Who bloody knew.

He sighed and climbed back onto his small bed with his laptop and logged in ten minutes early. He went back to his profile and saw that Sherlock had left a rating. 10/10. For some reason it made John angry. He felt that he hadn't really done anything besides chat with the weird bloke and he shouldn't give him such a high rating because it wasn't really work.

That was when it hit him; it didn't feel like work. It felt like a strange sort of friendship. 

He got up and grabbed a beer from he fridge before plopping back down onto the bed and opening it with his keychain. 

He drank the beer down and by the time he was done he felt brave enough to hit the call button. The screen went from black to an image of Sherlock laying on his back on the sofa and John took a deep breath.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said earlier," Sherlock started. "I suppose it was rather dismissive."

"Shut up," John replied.

Sherlock looked over at the screen, a knee jerk reaction, and John took another deep breath.

"My name's John," he said next. "You should know that because pretty soon you'll be moaning it."

Sherlock swallowed deeply and tried to interrupt, "you really don't have to-"

"I told you to shut up. That's hard for you, Sherlock, isn't it? Hard for that brain to stop spitting out comebacks and theories." John said smoothly. "But we'll work on that."

Sherlock was barely breathing and John knew already that he'd won.

"Take off your trousers," he demanded. "Go on then."

Sherlock scrambled to obey and lay back down.

"Good," John purred. "Now I want you to touch yourself. Just rub, yeah. Go on."

Sherlock choked out a whimper and ground the heel of his palm into his crotch. He was already growing hard, something he hadn't truly anticipated but was soon becoming urgent.

"Feel good?" John asked, voice husky as he let his hand slip into his own pants.

Sherlock nodded and John smiled.

"'Course it does. Haven't done this in a while, have you? Look how desperate you are," John purred. "Let's see it, then."

Sherlock swallowed hard as a deep flush moved up his neck. His hand halted and he licked his lips nervously.

"Don't tell me you're shy, pushy brat like you," John teased.

Sherlock frowned slightly and closed his eyes.

"That's alright, then. Just reach in for me. You don't have to show me," John said gently as Sherlock breathed through his nose.

Sherlock nodded and did just that, slipping his hand into the waistband of his pants and grunting.

"Pull it, then, gorgeous boy. Get it nice and hard for me," John said smoothly as he started to jerk his own cock. "Such a gorgeous boy. Should I tell you what I'd like to do to you?"

"Please," Sherlock whispered roughly as his hand started to move beneath the expensive silk.

"I'd take you right there on the sofa. I'd bend you over it and eat your arse while you drooled on the cushions. You'd look gorgeous on your knees." John replied.

"Oh, God," Sherlock moaned.

"Then I'd finger you. Do you think you'd be good for me and keep your hands off your prick, or do you think I'd have to tie your hands up. You'd look pretty in red silk rope," John growled as Sherlock's hand sped up. "I'd push my fingers into you and open you up nicely before sinking into your tight heat. Have you ever been fucked, Sherlock? Have you ever had someone bury themselves in you?"

Sherlock shook his head and clutched at the cushions with his unoccupied hand.

"How about toys, then?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded emphatically and bit his lip.

"Good, good boy," John replied as sweat began to bead on his forehead. "I'm thrusting into my fist thinking about it. About how good you'd be for me, how sweet."

"John," Sherlock whimpered.

John chuckled and fucked his fist harder. "Will you come for me, genius? Will you make a mess of your pants?"

Sherlock grunted and jerked himself roughly, back arching as he started to come.

"Bloody gorgeous. What do you say, hmm?" John asked, closing in on his own orgasm.

"John!" Sherlock moaned, eyes screwed shut as his hips finally stilled.

John tightened his grip and came all over his fist, the first time he'd done so with a client, and sighed deeply. Sherlock looked utterly destroyed and he felt the same.

"Perfect," John murmured as Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he looked over guiltily.

"I didn't mean to, I mean it wasn't my intention to-" Sherlock began, seemingly a bit panicked.

"Shh," John said, breathing deeply and relaxing, "I'll sleep like a baby tonight. You did well."

Sherlock swallowed and looked down at his hand with a frown.

"Talk to you soon?" John asked, voice as lax as his body.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied softly.

"Okay, then," John said with a small smile. "Sleep well, Sherlock."

He watched as Sherlock reached over and closed the laptop, not understanding why the motion made him feel a bit disappointed.

_____

The next morning John saw that he had a twelve o'clock appointment with Sherlock, only this time it was over the phone. He shifted in his seat, the growing discomfort making him itch, as he realised Sherlock would probably be calling him to break it off. He felt a flush take to his cheeks at the thought, shame working its way in. How had he got himself into this? How had he managed to think of something that was obviously nothing more than a transaction as a relationship.

He was disgusted with himself. The glaring reality coming into full focus. He'd bloody fallen for a client. He was a cliché, a cliché and not even a good one. It occurred to him that he could just quit. Quit and never think about Sherlock again.

In the end he decided against it, actually wanting to hear the man's voice once more before it was all over.

_____

Twelve came too soon and John wasn't ready for the conversation. He picked up the phone anyhow and dialed. It rang twice before picking up.

"John?" Sherlock said, voice unnervingly timid.

"Hello, Sherlock," John replied in what he hoped was an even tone.

"Hello. I was, I just wanted to say that..." Sherlock said, trailing off.

"It's okay, it really is," John said quickly. "I crossed a line, I understand why you don't want to talk to me again."

There was a long sigh from the other line and John's stomach clenched.

"I sometimes worry about the youth of England," Sherlock quipped. "I'm not telling you that at all. What I'm saying is that...I'd like to send you something. It's nothing really, just saw it and thought of you."

"Send me something?" John asked, now entirely confused. "Like a present?"

He could hear Sherlock swallow before he cleared his throat. 

"A present, yes," Sherlock said in a strained manner. "Like I said, it's nothing. If this is too forward you'll have to tell me."

"No it's...I mean I have a PO box," John said, playing with the hem of his shirt.

"Good, that's...that's good. I'll just, erm, remember to get the number from you at the end of our talk," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, okay," John said, eyebrows knit. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

"I'm at a crime scene," Sherlock replied. "That's the reason for the phone call as opposed to Skype. I need to pick your brain."

John laughed nervously and settled back into the sofa. "Alright, then. What have you got for me?"

_____

Two days later John walked down to the post office to pick up his package. He and Sherlock had talked once more after the crime scene but he'd just sort of rambled on about another case and hadn't expected John to say anything. 

As he stood in the queue he wondered what was in the box awaiting him. Possibly a sex toy? That would be a little creepy, but not unexpected. He didn't really know Sherlock that well, after all. He was breaking all the rules by taking gifts and he felt a bit off about it.

When he made it to the front and gave the woman his card his palms were already beginning to sweat. He chewed his lip nervously waiting for it to all be over and took the box from her with a little more gusto than is generally shown in that type of establishment. With a quick apology he was on his way out the door and onto the street.

The box was heavy. It wasn't that large and John had been expecting something light so his mind couldn't quite grab hold and he stood in the street for a second just looking at it. A passing car alerted himself to his surroundings and he walked quickly home, box fitted uncomfortably under one arm.

_____

The notice arrived in his email that morning, John had signed for the package. He closed his laptop immediately and stood to pace in the sitting room. What if John hated it? What if John was put off by the gesture and didn't really want anything to do with him anymore. What if he got a message from the website that he wasn't Welcome back, due to rules he knew he was breaking. 

He pulled at his hair and walked to the loo to take a shower, hoping the scalding water from the old pipes would be enough of a distraction.

_____

John's roommate opened the door just as John had sat on the sofa, legs crossed and head bowed to inspect the box more closely.

"What's that, then?" Mike asked jovially.

John looked up quickly and cleared his throat. "Something from a...a friend," he said lamely.

Mike sat in chair opposite with a loud sigh and a wide grin and just stared at the box for a few long moments.

"Well," he asked after a time, "are you going to open it?"

John made a strange sound in the back of his throat and stood to bring it into his bedroom. Mike chuckled and walked after him up to the point where the door was closed, unceremoniously, in his face.

"Have you got an admirer, Watson?" He teased.

"Stuff it, Stamford," John grunted, fingernails already tearing at the tape.

Once the box was open and the tissue tossed aside John felt his knees grow weak with relief. He sank to the floor, back pressed against the door, and removed a box too fancy and much too small to be any type of sex toy...well, any type he'd seen. The image of a gold plated prostate stimulator came to mind and he shook it off to open the box.

Inside was a watch. A handsome watch. A watch that could probably pay his tuition for the year. Bloody hell. He pulled it out and fastened it to his wrist. Christ, it looked good. 

He knew he shouldn't keep it. There was probably something Sherlock wanted in return. He'd want to meet in person and tie John up or some such shite. Or maybe...no, he'd definitely want John tied up. And hell, it wasn't as if there was anything wrong with that, it was just a matter of John rather wanting to DO the tying. 

John let his fingers run over the polished leather and glass of the watch and took the box back in hand to find out what else was there. Under another bit of tissue was a book, looked to be antique, on bruise patterns. He pulled it out and opened it to the front page.

'John,  
Without you I would be utterly bored.  
SH'

John swallowed and flipped through the pages until he came to some gruesome black and white photos and a bookmark with a number on it.

_____

Sherlock was curled into a ball on the sofa when his mobile chimed. He picked it up angrily and looked at the message.

I'M NOT SURE I CAN ACCEPT THE WATCH  
JW 

Sherlock's heart started to beat quickly. To anyone else it may have seemed like a dismissal, but not to Sherlock, no, he was much too clever to see it as such. John hadn't said he didn't want the watch, you see, and hadn't said he wasn't keeping it, which meant he did like it and he wanted to keep it. He'd also done the miraculous and texted Sherlock. If he thought Sherlock creepy and disgusting, or the message in the book too much, he would never have texted him. No, John liked the gift and liked Sherlock as well, he was just unsure of the situation.

ARE YOU WEARING IT?  
SH

Sherlock tapped his foot obsessively as he awaited the answer.

YES  
JW 

A grin spread across his face and he whined with excitement.

SEND ME A PICTURE.  
SH

It took a few moments but when the photo came through, John's lower arm resting across his thigh, socked foot just in frame, Sherlock felt he might just expire. He was wearing the watch, of course, and it was perfection.


	2. Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John starts off thinking of Sherlock as a client but end up thinking of him a bit differently.

Mike commented on his watch that night, making John blush and stick his arm behind his back. He knew Mike wouldn't let up until he found out who it was from but he didn't know how to explain it. He was working sexline and had fallen for a client. An older client, if his clothes and ability to slip onto crime scenes was any indicator. He was personally so bloody far from 'Pretty Woman' that when the comparison came to mind he almost choked on his tea. 

It was there, none the less.

_____

 

The next night John rang up Sherlock at the designated time and waited patiently for the line to open. He saw Sherlock fiddling with the keyboard and held his breath.

"John, good. I was just going through some old research papers and was hoping you could shed some light on a few things," Sherlock said quickly, pulling papers out of a glossy file.

John wasn't sure why he thought their relationship would change. He was, however, relieved to be talking about heart surgeries instead of watches and notes left in books. The hour went by quickly.

_____

 

"Well," Sherlock said near the end of their meeting, "that's sorted. Thank you again...I'll...I'll talk to you later this week."

"Mmm," John replied with a small smile.

Sherlock sat up from where he was laying back on the sofa and looked at the computer screen. John thought he was looking straight at him, impossible as it was, until he started to straighten his hair. He giggled and Sherlock pulled a small face before saying goodbye and logging off.

John closed his laptop and lay back on his bed with his mobile in hand. He pressed the button and waited for the call to go through.

"Hello?" Sherlock said, a bit confused as to why John was calling him.

"Take your trousers off," John growled.

"Oh," Sherlock said, more a whoosh of air than a word, and John heard his zip go down.

"You did very well keeping things professional today," John added, slipping his own trousers off and kicking them to the side of his bed. The other end of the line was silent and John chuckled deeply. "When I complement you I really expect a response."

"Yes, John, thank you," Sherlock said, voice airy.

"Mmm. Better," John purred. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock stuttered. "Are you...will you touch yourself as well?"

"Can't help it, can I?" John asked cheekily. 

He heard a breath of relief from Sherlock and set about rubbing himself through his pants.

"Do you like the watch?" Sherlock asked.

"I've told you I do," John replied with a grin. "Does it get you hard when you please me?"

"Oh," Sherlock panted.

"I like the watch, Sherlock. You're very clever for picking it out for me," John pressed.

"I, I thought you'd like it," Sherlock stuttered, breath coming hard now. "Are you...are you wearing it now?"

"Mmm, right now. While I stroke myself. Do you think it makes a pretty picture?" John replied, looking down to where his hand was moving over his cock.

"John," Sherlock moaned.

"That's it. Will you take it out for me?" John asked.

Sherlock grunted and his breath came even faster as it was accompanied by the sounds of a bed creaking.

"Tell me how you like it," John murmured.

"I..." Sherlock said shakily.

"That's alright. Small steps, hmm?" John replied before spitting into his hand and closing his eyes to better imagine the handsome genius' hand where his currently was.

They went on like that for several minutes, breathing hot air into their mobiles and panting out each other's names. When Sherlock finally came it was with a loud whine and shaking legs. John thrust harder into his own fist and spilled over it in no time.

"Christ," John breathed out. 

Sherlock hummed in agreement and John started to giggle.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, voice gone soft with exhaustion.

"Just...just getting off with you over the phone after months of not getting off with anyone," John replied.

"Not any of the other clients?" Sherlock asked, obviously hesitant to know.

"You aren't a client, Sherlock. Not for sex anyway," John replied. "But, no, not with any of the clients."

"What am I, then?" Sherlock asked so softly that John almost didn't hear him. Maybe he was nervous because he thought John would say something along the lines of 'just a little fun' and his heart would be utterly broken.

"What would you like to be?" John asked.

There was a long pause and John thought for a moment that Sherlock wasn't going to reply. He did, though, after clearing his throat.

"Your date. Dinner, later this week," he said.

John's stomach roiled with nerves but he nodded solidly just the same.

"Yeah," he said. "I have, erm, I have Saturday night off. Text me the address?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured. "Will you go to sleep now?"

"Mmm, yeah, I think so," John replied. "You?"

"Perhaps for a while," Sherlock said sleepily. "Should we ring off now?"

John smiled and reached over the edge of the bed to get a discarded shirt to clean himself off on. "Think so. Text you tomorrow?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."


	3. I Thought You'd Be Taller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get their date.

John found himself standing outside a place called Angelo's later that week. It was a cold night and as he pulled his coat tighter around himself and looked at his mobile a cab drove up. He glanced over as the door opened and the man he knew to be Sherlock stepped out.

He was much taller in person and John licked his lips as he saw Sherlock go into his coat pocket and pull his mobile out. He couldn't believe Sherlock was standing in front of him and was thus surprised when his own mobile chimed in his hand. 

Sherlock looked up in confusion, mouth forming a perfect 'o' and cheeks flushing. 

"I'd almost forgot you haven't seen my face," John said, swallowing thickly and sticking his hand out.

Sherlock quickly slipped his mobile back into his pocket and took John's hand in his, wishing for a moment that he wasn't wearing gloves. He held it a bit longer than necessary before pulling John closer so he could run his thumb over the watch on his wrist. The shiver that went through John didn't go unnoticed.

"I wear it everyday," John said in an unconscious attempt to fill the space and quiet between them.

"That's...that's good," Sherlock replied. 

"Shall we?" John asked with a small smile and a nod towards the restaurant.

"Oh, yes, of course," Sherlock said, brushing his thumb across the inside of John's wrist before finally letting go.

John pulled the cuff of his jacket down and smiled stupidly as they made their way into the building. 

A thin waiter showed them to a booth near the back and John removed his coat and sat. Sherlock sat across from him and slipped off his gloves, eyes not leaving John's for a moment.

"Like what you see?" John asked cheekily.

"I thought you'd be taller," Sherlock replied with a small grin.

"Git," John chuckled.

The sound Sherlock was so used to at this point was even more enticing when accompanied by a soft smile and nervous hand, fingers tapping on the edge of the table.

A large man came and introduced himself. He had a candle for the table and a story about Sherlock getting him off a murder charge and he wasn't gone soon enough for either of their likings.

"I brought you something," Sherlock said once the man was gone, hand slipping into his coat pocket and pulling out a flat box.  
John took it when it was placed on the table and pushed towards him, and held it in his hands.

"You didn't have to get me anything, you know," he said, brow wrinkled.

"I know," Sherlock replied nervously. "Open it."

John pulled the top off the box and smiled warmly.

"You got me gloves?" He asked as he pulled out the pair, dark brown and softer than expected.

"Yours are wearing a bit thin," Sherlock murmured.

John's eyebrows shot up. "How do you know that?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and looked down at the table where John had laid his gloves. They were thin, at the fingertips and near the stitching, and John quickly stuffed them into his jacket pocket.

"You really shouldn't have," he said, "but they're rather nice."

Sherlock felt warmth in his cheeks and picked up his menu to hide the flush he knew was on its way to making a fool of him. He hated that something so simple and human could have such control over him.

"The lasagna is good," he mumbled as John closed the new gloves back in the box and set it aside.

"Would you, um, should we get a bit of wine?" John asked as he played with the edge of his napkin.

"I know a good merlot," Sherlock replied a little quickly.

John smiled and nodded to the waiter.

_____

 

It was about the time that John started in on his third glass of wine and their desserts were presented that both men relaxed a bit. John wasn't sure how it happened but they'd got past all the awkwardness and were behaving like a couple of teenagers. He slipped the toe of his shoe against Sherlock's ankle and grinned as the man shifted in his seat.

"How old are you, anyhow? Can't tell, what with the posh suit and all," John asked before slipping his spoon between his lips.

Sherlock sat up a bit more and licked his lips, eyes following the spoon. "How old would you guess?"

"Thirty five?" John asked, nose wrinkling in concentration.

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. "Thirty."

"You mean to tell me you're only five years older than me?" John asked. "You make me look like a bloody slacker!"

"Yes, med student working at night to help pay off his student loans all while taking care of his alcoholic father? You really must get yourself in order," Sherlock replied with a laugh.

"Take me home," John said quickly, both hands on the tabletop and lips in a determined line. "Take me home right now."

Sherlock choked on his drink and nodded weakly as he held his hand up for the bill. His eyes didn't leave John's for a second until he had to sign and hand over his bank card.

They were out of he building and into a cab in no time and headed towards 221B Baker Street. John opened the box with the new gloves and slipped his hands into them carefully, knowing all the while that Sherlock was watching with bruising intent.

"They're soft on the inside," John said softly as he wriggled his fingers.

When he looked up he could have sworn Sherlock was close to passing out, his eyes were slightly glazed and his mouth was hanging open. It was arousal just on this side of shock and John wanted to see more of it.

He let his left hand fall to Sherlock's thigh and clutched at it gently, breathing deeply as he felt the muscle tense and jump before relaxing.

"They look good on me," John said cheekily as he looked out the window, "but you seem to know what will. Did you know I was blonde? Was that something you could deduce?"

"John," Sherlock murmured.

"Have I done it? Have I short circuited your brain?" John asked with a chuckle.

"The hair on your wrist and just above the lip of your socks," Sherlock blurted.

John bit his lip and raised an eyebrow as Sherlock tried to get hold of his thoughts and put them into some sort of discernible order.

"In the picture you took. Your body hair is light enough to indicate that you're a natural blonde. I was hoping for blue eyes and at first I thought they were brown but they're much more complex, aren't they? Deep blue. Just like you, more complex than what you'd assume at first glance."

John squeezed his thigh and shifted in his seat. "What would you assume at first glance?"

"Ladies man. Footballer. Knows he can get away with about anything he'd like. Cocky," Sherlock spit. 

"And I'm more than that?" John asked, move his hand higher on Sherlock's thigh.

"Much more. You act ladies' man to appease your father. Your inclinations are more often than not across the board. You play football but you got into it for the chance to be out of the house instead of the popularity that comes with being captain. You can get away with anything but don't abuse the power. You are cocky, but it's justifiable," Sherlock replied quickly, voice tight.

The cab pulled up to 221 and Sherlock absently passed over quite a bit more money than was required and nearly fled from the cab. John chuckled and followed him up the steps to relax against the wall as Sherlock fiddled with his keys.

"Anytime now," he purred.

Sherlock slid the right key in and opened he door, careful to look inside to make sure Mrs Hudson wasn't in before pulled John by the arm and starting up the stairs.


	4. Not Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock make it into the flat. Just barely.

John closed the door behind himself and spun Sherlock around, lips curling as he pressed him against the wall. Sherlock's eyes went wide and he smiled nervously back at John, heartbeat that of a sparrow. 

"Can I kiss you?" John asked, fingers hooking in Sherlock's belt loops and body buzzing between the urge to push him harder against the wall or pull him close against his own body.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded once, eyes shifting from John's lips and back up again twice before the man leaned in and kissed him. 

It was awkward. 

Sherlock hadn't really had much experience kissing, and by not much he meant none at all. Well, not that type of kissing. That type of kissing involved tongue and mobile lips and a surprising amount of teeth. 

So, yes, it was awkward, but it was good. John grunted and ran one hand up into Sherlock's curls and pulled him so be bent more, the gap between them disappearing and the physical contact growing. Sherlock's hands flitted to John's hips and skittered across to his lower back, all the while he wondered how on earth he'd never felt someone like that before. 

John pulled the back of Sherlock's shirt from his trousers and pushed gloved hands up his bare back, the move eliciting a sigh from Sherlock and then a frustrated hum.

"Take the gloves off," Sherlock said, pulling away suddenly with furrowed brows.

John chuckled and did just that, slipping the pair into his back pocket and looking Sherlock in the eye as his fingers went back to the warm skin of his lower back. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and a soft sound left his mouth as he slumped forward, actively seeking out John's lips with his own. John kissed him again and closed his eyes as well.

The lingering alcohol in both of their systems and the fact that Mrs H had been baking downstairs made it so that staying fully clothed, coats and scarfs and all, was becoming a less and less appealing idea. John was the first to give in, removing his hands from underneath Sherlock's shirt and taking a whole step back. Sherlock whined and opened his eyes to see what had happened and was surprised to see John removing his jacket.

The sight must have made his mind skip several steps down the line because his demeanor changed and he bustled past John and into the sitting room, turning on lights and talking in a nervous loop about the flat.

"I wasn't expecting, that is I didn't think you'd end up here tonight so I didn't, well, I didn't foresee needing to tidy up. It's not that I'm a horrendous slob, I've just been so busy as of late that cleaning has really been the last thing on my mind," he sputtered as he moved things around in a strange dance that ended with them surprisingly close to where they'd begun.

John was well aware he should have stopped Sherlock at some point but he'd always enjoyed seeing the genius running circles and the show was rather good. Alright, John was a bit of a bastard, it's true, but at least he was a lovable one.

When it finally dawned on Sherlock what he'd done, looking around in a confused manner, he stuck his hands in his pockets as if it were the only way to stop them from moving and bit his lip.

"This isn't the first time I've seen your flat," John said softly, lips curled and arms crossed, from his place near the door.

"Oh, o-of course...of course not," Sherlock muttered, looking nearly forlorn.

John chuckled and walked the few steps involved in making it to the only open seat. Sherlock watched him relax into the spot and finally pushed papers from the chair opposite and slid uncomfortably into it.

"You're too far away," John said, smiling and slipping his feet from his shoes.

Sherlock looked thoroughly distressed for a moment before standing and pushing his chair closer. When he sat again his knees bracketed John's in a way that made him unable to look away. John let his legs fall apart so his knees pressed Sherlock's inner thighs, and wriggled his toes. Sherlock's hips rolled in his seat and John took perhaps too much joy in the nervous movement.

"That's better," he murmured.

"John," Sherlock sighed in agreement.

"I've missed having you like this. We've been on the phone the last few times. I've missed watching you get all out of sorts," John added.

"I'm not all-" Sherlock started defensively.

John lifted one socked foot to the seat of the chair and rubbed his toes across Sherlock's inner thigh. The protest dropped from Sherlock's lips and he shifted in his seat again.

"You'll tell me if it's too much," John said, not anything close to a question, and Sherlock nodded.

John pushed his foot forward and rubbed at the front of Sherlock's trousers. 

"Do you mind if I-" he asked, already starting to undo his own zip.

"Of course not," Sherlock said weakly.

John licked his lips and lowered the zip, reaching inside and taking himself in hand. Sherlock's breath started coming a bit faster as he watched John's hand move over his clothed cock and let his own hips rut against John's foot slightly.

"You want to see it, then?" John asked, knowing the answer.

Sherlock nodded and rolled his hips as John unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them and his pants to mid thigh. His cock bounced free and Sherlock moaned as he took it in hand, fist moving up and down the shaft.

"And, Sherlock," John said cheekily, "I really like the watch."

Sherlock's eyes flitted back and forth between John's wrist and the head of his cock, not sure what he liked more. John let his head loll back and started to rub his foot up and down Sherlock's prick, curling his toes and adding pressure when the other man drew in a breath.

"You've been thinking about this all night, haven't you? How I might initiate, how I might touch you," John said as he looked back into Sherlock's hooded eyes.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, thrusting now and gripping the arms of the chair.

"I wanted to have you in the men's at the restaurant, I did, but I think this is better. Do you think it's better, Sherlock?" John lead.

"Yes, John," Sherlock agreed, this time nodding a bit.

"You're being such a good boy," John praised as he stroked himself faster. "Do you think you can come like this?"

Sherlock grunted and reached down to hold John's foot, long fingers caressing the soft wool, and thrust roughly.

"Answer me, Sherlock," John pressed. "Full sentence this time."

"Yes, John, I can come like this," Sherlock hissed.

"Mmm, I think you're right," John replied.

"C-can I?" Sherlock whimpered.

"God, yes," John replied with a grin, curling his toes as Sherlock's hips went of their own free will and he felt the man's cock swell and twitch in its release.

Sherlock panted and let himself go, hair sticking to his forehead where sweat had gathered. 

John sped up his hand and focused on the head and managed to say Sherlock's name urgently before he fell over the precipice as well and jerked himself to completion. "Bloody perfect," he growled.

Sherlock, weak and overcome with lassitude, pulled at his damp trousers and sighed.

"Are there flannels in the loo?" John asked, wrestling his trousers and pants back up and standing on weak legs.

Sherlock nodded and pointed the way, watching John as he went and wondering what in god's name he was supposed to do just then. Unfortunately for him the fact that he had just come, quite spectacularly in fact, meant he couldn't think at his usual rate and John didn't seem to want to spend much time in the loo as he was turning round just as he'd washed his hands, walking back with a wet flannel. Sherlock tried to figure out what he was meant to do with his face in this type of situation and it somehow fell into a look of mild panic. At least it matched his mind.

"Clean up a bit and I'll make you something to drink," John said, handing the flannel over and walking back to the kitchen. "Where is the tea?"

"You aren't leaving?" Sherlock asked, wincing slightly as he slipped the flannel into his pants.

John looked back at Sherlock for a moment, hands on his hips, and then shook his head. "No, not yet."

Sherlock swallowed and felt a little of the panic slide away. 'Not yet'.


	5. Funny, That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After-sex case, cause why the hell not?

What Sherlock thought would end up being uncomfortable silence after amazing sex wasn't uncomfortable at all. They sat there looking at each other while sipping tea for a long time until John spoke up.

"Tell me how the latest case went," he said with a soft smile. "Did that detective let you on the scene?"

Sherlock nodded and started to speak in an overly animated fashion. John was delighted and sat back to watch as Sherlock spelled out the whole case. It was one of the most enjoyable times John had spent listening to someone talk in a long while, it even triumphed when Sherlock was working through his deductions. 

"And that's all it took?" John asked once Sherlock had finished. "Just the shoelaces?"

Sherlock smiled nervously at the look of utter amazement. "You know my methods, John."

John sighed and licked him lips and Sherlock wanted so badly to kiss him again.

"You're brilliant," John huffed.

Sherlock swallowed and looked down into his mug. "Would you like to...would you like to go out again?" He asked.

"You couldn't keep me away," John growled.

Just as John was going to say they'd better call it a night an older man with premature salt and pepper hair broke into the apartment, out of breath and holding a file.

"Don't make me beg this time," he said, removing his scarf and handing the file to Sherlock. His eyes grew wide when he went to sit and realised he'd totally missed that there was someone sitting across from Sherlock. It's just...Sherlock didn't have people over.

John grinned at him and the man stuck out his hand. "Detective Lestrade. Didn't see you there."

John looked over at Sherlock for some sort of guidance but he was dead to the world as his eyes flitted over the pages.

"John Watson," he said, shaking the man's hand. "I'm...uh-"

"My assistant," Sherlock interjected. 

"Assistant?" Lestrade asked, thoroughly confused.

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed. "He'll have to come with us to the scene. I can't do this without him."

"Wait," Lestrade said, "is this the bloke you've been phoning at crime scenes? Jesus, Sherlock, I told you no civilians."

Sherlock looked up at that, determined, and then stood. "He's a doctor and we're a package deal."

John was about to interject, it really was no good pretending to be a doctor, when Sherlock gave him a stern look. 

"Isn't he a bit young to be a doctor?" Lestrade asked, speaking to Sherlock and all but ignoring John.

"It might take you ten years to get through med school, but not everyone's as dull," Sherlock responded. "Do we have a deal?"

Lestrade sighed and looked John over before nodding. "Yeah, deal. Only cause having him on Skype is...unnerving."

Sherlock grinned and nodded once. "Fine. We'll follow in a cab. What's the address?"

Lestrade gave them the address and left. John looked over at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

"I could get in a lot of trouble for impersonating a doctor," he said.

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal and went to put on his greatcoat. "We'll tell him he truth after he sees how useful you are."

"Am I really that useful?" John asked softly, for once not so confident.

Sherlock turned and looked him up and down. "Irreplaceable. Utterly. Put on your shoes."

John chuckled and did just that.

_____

John had seen a lot in his three years of med school, people with gaping wounds and enough blood to fill a pool. This, however, was entirely different.

Even the cadavers he'd worked with were at least orderly.

This was not. Not orderly in the least.

"Hmm," Sherlock mumbled as they walked onto the scene. "Probably not known to the killer, otherwise the killer would have covered the bodies in some way."

They weren't covered, that was for sure. They were pretty obviously on display, guts torn open and entrails hanging. Two men, side by side, on their backs and completely bare.

"Cause of death?" Sherlock asked as John drew closer.

"Not sure if pathology is really my strong suit," John admitted, going to slip on some gloves and get into a full cover suit.

"Don't doubt yourself," Sherlock said, kneeling next to the bodies.

John nodded and brought him a pair of gloves. Sherlock slipped them on and then prodded at some of the entrails. John went to look at the dead men's eyes and Sherlock looked up covertly to watch him. 

It was new, being interested in someone almost as much as dead bodies. He supposed he was interested in John's reactions and determinations about the dead bodies the most, but still...

"Strangulation before evisceration," John said, standing finally and frowning at his hands, now covered in blood.

"Good," Sherlock said, "that's good."

"Yeah, I'd hate to see my own entrails," John said.

"Alright," Lestrade said, walking back into the room, "time's up. Give me what you have, Anderson's getting restless."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but stood and removed his gloves. John went to join him and took his own gloves off before tossing them in the bin and waiting for whatever was supposed to come next.

"First off, the two men were lovers. The killer placed them close together, looking into each other's eyes. I believe, when you clean up the mess that was their insides, you'll find he also mutilated their genitals," Sherlock said quickly.

"He?" John asked.

"Balance of probability," Sherlock replied, then went on, "I'd say mid thirties, caucasian. He has cats, residual fur. He's either gay or repulsed by gays. He didn't know the victims but this was personal; he strangled them to death so he could look them in the eyes as they died. Perhaps a religious fanatic. Possibly reacting to the marriage bill that just passed. The tox screen will tell us if they were drugged. If not he'd have to be large, as one of the victims was quite muscled. Let me know when they've been cleaned up so I can see their genitals."

Sally, who had entered without Sherlock or John noticing snorted at the last bit. Sherlock crinkled up his nose and rolled his eyes at her and John just looked confused.

Lestrade gave her a death glare and thanked the men and sent them on their way, promising Sherlock that he'd pass on the info he got from the morgue. They went out to the kerb and Sherlock hailed them a cab.

"I have school in the morning. I'd better head home," John said once they were in the cab. He was buzzed from the adrenalin, knee shaking.

"Home? Oh, of course," Sherlock said a little distractedly. "Should I have him drop you off first?"

"That's okay," John said, licking his lips. He wanted to spend more time with Sherlock but if he was late for, or slept through, his first class the professor would berate him.

Sherlock gave the cabbie his address and sat looking out the window, obviously thinking of the case. They didn't speak for the rest of the ride but their hands drifted together on the seat, pinkies touching. John had felt attraction recently but he hadn't felt this sort of fondness in a very long time. It gave him pause.

"Call me tomorrow?" John asked when they pulled up to 221. "On my personal number."

Sherlock nodded and paid the cabbie more than enough for his fare and then left. John watched him walk up to the front door and then the cab turned a corner. Fondness. Funny, that.


	6. I Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I wrote the next chapter yesterday and then realised I rushed the case. Hope you like this one, I think it sets things at a better pace.

The call from Sherlock didn't come. Instead when John finally got home that evening there was an appointment booked through his job. John didn't know why exactly, but it hurt. He'd told himself before that even when he was getting paid to talk to Sherlock it didn't feel like work but maybe it took something like this to make him see how much their relationship had changed in such a short time. 

He took a hot shower, water sluicing away all the sweat from his long shift in A&E, and slipped into some jogging trousers and an old jumper. He lay down on his bed and went through his Skype settings to see if he could remove the one-way viewing on his safety menu. 

He couldn't. Just another reason that this felt like a transaction instead of a conversation. 

He closed his laptop and went to the kitchenette to boil some water for tea. He needed to think about things before his session with Sherlock because his impulse was to tell him not to set up any more. He didn't want to talk to him on bleeding one-way Skype. He didn't want to feel like there was something standing between them, something keeping him a commodity. It occurred to him that it felt sort of whorish.

'What did you think you were doing in the first place, Johnny?' He asked himself sarcastically. 'You were a friend for pay. He probably still thinks of you like that.'

John poured the boiling water and brought his mug and a half eaten box of biscuits with him into his bedroom and set them on the bedside table. He checked the time once again and opened his laptop and rang Sherlock.

When the screen blinked on John realised Sherlock was wearing the same outfit he'd been in the night before, jacket abandoned somewhere and shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. Sherlock's hair might have been greasy as well but it wasn't bad enough that John could tell either way. He hadn't slept and was agitated.

"They were drugged, alright. Drugged and killed separately then brought together to play their part. We don't even think they knew each other. We think the killer picked the first one up at a club and kept him locked up for around three days before going to get the second victim and then killing them the same night. The genitals were...they were pulverized. So much anger, so much anger, John." Sherlock spit, hands running through his hair as he paced.

"Dear god," John gasped, feeling a bit queasy at the thought.

"I doubt God had a hand in this, although that's what the killer wants us to believe. Under the bodies were handwritten bible verses. There's really only the one about man not laying with man like he lays with a woman so the bastard had to make up a few of his own. No lack of imagination, as you saw."

"Did forensics find anything they can use? Fingerprints?" John asked, sitting back on his bed and forgetting all about how he was going to have a talk with Sherlock.

"Nothing yet. The cat hairs could help if we find who it is first. They won't lead us to him but they might prove that he was at the scene," Sherlock said gravely.

"So you got to do an examination?" John asked.

"Mmm. Intense. I spent the whole of the day there. The new morgue attendant may be young but she's not in the least squeamish," Sherlock said, finally sitting on the sofa, knees pinned under his chin.

John felt a pang of jealousy he knew wasn't warranted and asked his question before he could get ahold of himself, "is she pretty?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, the word coming out like the squawk of a strange bird.

"Never mind," John amended quickly.

Sherlock's head tilted to the side and John got that itching feeling, the one that told him Sherlock was watching him even though it was a physical impossibility. The genius's eyes blinked rapidly and his hands twitched for a moment before a confused smile made its way to his lips.

"Are you jealous?" He said slowly.

"No," John spit defensively.

"You are. I spent the day with a young lady and you're jealous," Sherlock said, smile widening. "Why are you jealous?"

"Can you just stop...saying that word?" John asked agitatedly.

Sherlock's smile grew crooked and he reached for the laptop. John was just about to protest when Sherlock closed it and the feed went dead. Then John's phone rang. He picked it up as quickly as possible.

"Why did you close your laptop?" He asked.

"Tell me why you're jealous," Sherlock said, voice low and sultry.

"I wasn't, I'm not...I like you. I mean, you know that. You know I like you," John sputtered.

There was a long silence from the other side of the line and John thought he might actually vomit. When Sherlock finally did speak he sounded high.

"I've taken my trousers off," he whined.

John cursed at the sound of rustling fabric and pressed the palm of his right hand against his eye socket. He was already growing hard and he knew he had to get back under some form of control.

"You're eager tonight, aren't you?" He asked, imagining Sherlock in his bed.

"Yes, John," Sherlock whispered.

John swallowed and lay on his back, hand trailing down to his cock. He gave himself one long stroke over the top of his trousers and didn't attempt to quiet the moan that came along with it. Sherlock moaned in response and John pushed his trousers down his thighs.

"God, I wish I was there," he murmured, letting his eyes fall closed. "Need more of you."

"Because you like me," Sherlock said with a pained huff.

John chuckled and gripped his cock. "Yeah, I do. Quite a lot."

"And you don't want me to be with the morgue attendant," Sherlock panted, "sexually."

John smiled at the strange phrase. "I don't want you to be with anyone else."

"O-" Sherlock whined, "only you."

"That's right, gorgeous boy," John purred. "I only want you to be with me."

"I want-" Sherlock tried. "I want-"

John hummed and rolled his hips, pushing his now painfully hard prick into his fist. "Tell me what you want. Go on, then, tell me."

"I want to be yours," Sherlock spat out, and now John could tell he was well out of his mind.

"Alright, genius, alright. You can be mine," John said soothingly, hearing Sherlock start to whine. "And I'll be yours, yeah?"

Sherlock grunted and called out John's name and obviously came. It was enough that John felt arousal grow sharp and fucked his fist and tumbled over the edge right after, come spurting up onto his jumper. 

They lay there, panting into their respective receivers, for a long while before Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Did you mean it?" He asked weakly. "Because I've read that sometimes people say things while having sex that later they-"

"I meant it," John interrupted.

"Oh, well, then I suppose...does that make you my boyfriend?" Sherlock asked, voice high and uncertain.

John chuckled and rolled onto his side, wiping his hand on his jumper. "That it does. Is that alright with you?"

"Yes!" Sherlock announced. 

John chuckled more and let his eyes drift closed. After a few seconds Sherlock spoke again.

"You'll need to sleep now. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

John yawned in agreement and bid him goodnight, all the anxiety from earlier gone, and they rang off. John only just made it out of his clothes before he fell asleep.


	7. Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffiness

John was in the middle of dealing with a patient when Sherlock called the next day, causing Sherlock to wonder for a second if it had been a mistake, if he was being ignored. Paranoia and low self esteem had always been an issue for him. When John finally did call him back he was relieved.

"Hey, gorgeous," John said as Sherlock answered.

"John," Sherlock rumbled, (and didn't it sound like a love poem?) "I need your help on the case tonight."

John laughed and moved the phone to his other ear as he got things ready for his next class. "What time?" He asked.

"Whenever you have time," Sherlock said eagerly.

"Well, I've got a shift tonight till eleven," John replied, heading out the door. "What about eleven thirty?"

"Eleven thirty it is," Sherlock replied gratefully. "Can you come by my place?"

"Absolutely," John said, locking the door behind him and heading down the hall and then out into the cool afternoon. "Should I bring takeaway?"

"Oh, yes. For yourself. I won't be eating," Sherlock replied.

"We'll see about that," John said with a soft smile. "See you tonight."

Sherlock hummed in agreement and John rang off.

_____

John pretended to orgasm at around ten forty five, it always cinched it with this client. The man's breathing sped up and John talked him through his climax, keeping his voice airy. By the time the man rang off John was dressed in what he hoped looked relaxed enough for a night in and had already emailed in his order to his favorite Thai place. 

He didn't know what to expect, but what he found when he showed up at Sherlock's didn't really surprise him. The man's hair was crazed and he was in his dressing gown and a pair of pajama pants. He looked confused and then panicked and went to the sitting room, picking up a small clock and cursing himself.

"You're...well, on time," he said, swallowing roughly and passing one hand through his wild curls. "I lost track, I suppose. I'll just go put some clothes on."

"Don't bother on my account," John said, going into the kitchen and setting the food on the table. "We're staying in, right?"

"Right," Sherlock said, nodding distractedly. "Right, staying in."

John opened one of the takeaway boxes and grabbed a plastic fork and started to eat, slipping his shoes off by the front door and going over to look at all the things Sherlock had tacked to the wall above the sofa. Sherlock went and stood next to him, eyes also on the wall, and worried his lip.

"Learn anything new?" John asked between bites.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, fingers on his bottom lip, "I found puncture wounds on their necks once the blood was cleaned away."

John nodded and continued to eat. "Anyone protesting the new bill that really sticks out? Someone you think would kill to make a point?"

Sherlock smiled at John and went to get a stack of photos. They were of a group of people outside with picket signs. John set his food down and looked through as Sherlock watched him. When he got to one of a small man with angry eyes he glanced up. There were three more of the same man shouting into a bullhorn.

"He looks ready to kill someone," John said, hesitating and looking at Sherlock pointedly before going and attaching a few pictures to the wall.

"Gerry Mander. He's viciously opposed to same sex relations and has made multiple hate speeches this month alone. His brother came out after a long stint in prison and the lunatic is convinced that prisons cause homosexuality. He's a radical Catholic that believes all gays should be put to death. Real 'good samaritan's throw rocks' type. Has a small following." Sherlock said.

"So he's our guy?" John asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Yes," Sherlock said sadly.

"Well, what's wrong?" John asked.

"He turned himself in," Sherlock replied. "Which means I'm going to have to testify in court."

"Oh," John replied, setting the other pictures aside. "But he admitted to the killings...why do you have to testify?"

"The bastard is making a three ring circus out of this. He hasn't admitted, just gone into custody. His followers have hired a big shot solicitor and Lestrade says they need to have a solid trial. He wants to use me as a witness and I absolutely hate going to court. I never get to say what I want and the people they pay to 'coach' me in my testimony don't have two brain cells to rub together let alone enough sense to understand the nuance involved in-" Sherlock began.

John interrupted him by gripping the back of his head and pulling him down for a kiss. Sherlock melted a bit and let his eyes flutter closed, only opening them a second after John had pulled back.

"Wh-what was that for?" He gasped.

"You solved the case. Less than three days and you bloody solved the case," John said, smile wide. "Genius."

"Well, yes, but I mean-" Sherlock tried, looking confused.

"You're worried. You're worried that your testimony won't be enough," John realised aloud.

Sherlock wiggled from side to side and looked at the floor.

"Hey, the important part is done. You've done what you can and now it's up to the court to prove it. If they asked you to testify that means they think you can help them win. That's all," John soothed, hand stroking Sherlock's neck.

"I like it so much better when they just die, though," Sherlock sulked. "Then at least I can relax."

John chuckled and pulled Sherlock in for another kiss. It was soft and short and Sherlock sighed into it.

"You're exhausted," John said, pushing the hair back from Sherlock's brow. "How bout a hot shower?"

Sherlock looked horribly nervous and John kissed his hand. He had of course assumed John would be joining him. His face grew red and he tried to speak but nothing came out.

"By the time you're done I'll have finished my dinner," John said, taking pity. "Then you can slip into some fresh pajamas and maybe we can lay around in bed."

"In our clothes?" Sherlock asked weakly.

"Whatever you want," John soothed.

Sherlock nodded and went to the loo while John picked up his food and started eating again. He figured it was kind of charming how nervous Sherlock was. He was so pushy and in control the rest of the time that John found it heartwarming that he had that softer, uncertain side.

_____

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock found himself resting against the headboard of his bed as John slowly convinced him to eat. Now that he was eating he found he was rather hungry. He hated when his body betrayed him like that.

"So when did you crack the case?" John asked, pushing an almost offensively fluffy towel through Sherlock's curls.

"Around lunch time. I had my people collecting info on the protests surrounding the bill and when I got all the info on the suspect I went to Lestrade. They'd been looking into it as well and when they went to question the subject they found he'd fled his home. Oh, and he had cats. Of course," Sherlock explained. "The police went to the news and Mr Mander showed up with his lawyer an hour later."

"Does he have an alibi?" John asked.

"He says he was out at a movie. Should be easy enough to refute," Sherlock replied.

"Are you done?" John asked, setting the towel aside and pointing to Sherlock's takeaway box. 

Sherlock looked down and found that he was done. He breathed deeply and looked over at John. John smiled, reading the exhaustion in him, and took the box from him.

"You should get to bed," He said.

Sherlock's eyes shot wide, pleadingly. "But I don't want you to go!" He whined.

John chuckled and rested his hands on his hips, tongue being worried between his teeth. After a few moments time he started to undo the flies of his denims and then slipped out of them. Sherlock looked rather shocked as he then removed his shirt and slid into bed next to him.

"I don't have to be up till nine tomorrow," John said as he reached across Sherlock to turn off the light. "Can you set your alarm?"

Sherlock fumbled with the bedside clock for a moment and then turned toward John. "It's set," he whispered, not knowing what to do with his hands.

John adjusted his pillow and then held his arms open so that Sherlock could settle against his chest. Sherlock was uncomfortably still for a few moments before John kissed the back of his neck and he relaxed.

"I won't be able to sleep," he whispered.

"That's alright, then. Just try," John whispered back, closing his eyes and nuzzling the back of Sherlock's neck gently.

Sherlock nodded and within minutes was snoring softly and completely dead to the world.


	8. The Lads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantasy and porn. That's all.

John was warm. His body was like a space heater. Sherlock really didn't mind, as his feet were always cold and John's thighs brought them to nearly the perfect temperature. He lay on his back, duvet up and covering everything below his eyes, and watched John sleep. 

Since John was warm he'd pushed the covers off of himself and was laying on his back with one arm hanging loosely across his abdomen and the other under his head. Sherlock's feet were wedged under his left thigh. His thighs were gorgeous. They were thick and muscled and peppered with soft golden hairs. Sherlock currently had his feet on the exact line where tan met pasty British skin. He wanted to lick that line.

Amazingly enough, Sherlock wasn't even looking at the line. Instead he was concentrating on John's firm chest where it rose and fell in the deep breaths of sleep. Expanding and contracting. Twitching ever so slightly when Sherlock pulled the duvet down to blow gently across it. Nipples erect and perfectly pink, like spring roses in the park.

It occurred to Sherlock how strange it was that he could be completely disinterested in his own body, to the point of resenting the thing, and yet so completely enamored with John's. He pulled the duvet back over his mouth and nose when he realised how much he was being affected. 

John and his 'Captain of the football team' physique reminded him of the lads in his secret magazines. The ones with fit young footballers and Army blokes. He imagine John, lips dark pink, his mouth stuffed with cock, and choked on a whimper. John buried in his teammate's arse. John stroking himself off as he was buggered from behind, kit pulled off and in a pool at his feet. John getting fucked whilst still wearing his boots. John fucking his teammate with his trousers pushed down to his thighs as he held his shirt up with his chin so he could watch himself bury his prick over and over in-

John sighed and stretched then rolled over and sleepily pulled Sherlock against his chest. Sherlock could barely breath as he felt John's hot breath through the duvet. He pushed his toes beneath John's ankles and licked his lips.

John, burying his prick in his teammate, over and over. John pulling out almost all the way only to push back in with a snap of his hips. John grunting and-

John sighed again and rolled his hips, sleepy cock seeking friction. Sherlock's breath caught and it occurred to him that the thoughts he'd been having meant he was leaking through his pyjama trousers and was hard as a bloody rock. John wrapped his leg around Sherlock and pulled him closer, thigh pressing where Sherlock simply ached.

That time he couldn't help the moan. The nudge had been almost painful and he really had no cause of action but to react. A dreamy smile pulled across John's face and his eyes fluttered open.

He brushed a hand across his eyes and spoke, "morning."

Sherlock tried to croak out a response but it was all jarbled and muted by the duvet. John chuckled and pulled the duvet down so he could scoot up and kiss him gently on the lips. His adjustment once again pressed against Sherlock's highly interested prick and his eyes fluttered closed as it gave an encouraging twitch.

"Oh," John replied cheekily, "a very good morning."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and attempted to regain some composure. "That sounds like a line from a porno."

"Oh, yeah?" John asked. "And what happens next?"

Sherlock whimpered and his face grew hot and pink as John waited for a response.

"Don't be silly," he shot back.

"Silly's not really what I'm trying for, and by the response I'm getting I'd say silly isn't how you feel right now," John said. "Can I touch you?"

Sherlock swallowed hard and looked away.

"What's wrong?" John asked, the soon to be doctor in him coming out in full force.

"It's just...well, my prick is rather..." Sherlock tried.

"Interested? Yes, I can feel that," John teased, rubbing it with his knee, and then more seriously, "whatever it is, I assure you, I've seen it. I used to practically live in the locker room. Still do on weekends."

This, despite his embarrassment, piqued Sherlock's interest. "You saw them...naked?" He asked.

"Cor, yeah. Not in a sexual way or anything but I've seen my share of cock," John snorted.

"Never in a sexual way?" Sherlock asked.

John burst out laughing at that and buried his face in Sherlock's neck. When he'd finally got hold of himself he kissed Sherlock's neck roughly and bit down. 

"That what you like, you naughty thing? You want to think about me an' the lads touching each other?" John asked, rolling his hips.

Sherlock looked completely horrified and John licked his lips.

"Why don't you let me touch you and tell you a little story?" John asked, almost a growl. "Grab a condom."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded quickly, pulling off his pyjama bottoms before rolling to get a condom out of the bedside table. John gripped his thigh and moved his hand to cup Sherlock's bollocks.

"It's very long," Sherlock squeaked, looking strangely adorable in a shirt and no pants.

John grinned and moved up to grip the shaft, lolling his head back and grunting as he took the condom from Sherlock and removed the wrapper. He rolled it down Sherlock's impressive length and sighed, "ah, fuck, I'll be sitting on that."

Sherlock looked like he'd been hit over the head with something and John stroked him surely.

"That's all?" John asked. "That's all you were worried about?"

Sherlock shrugged and then nodded, remembering how to breathe and feeling quite stupid for the loud breath he drew in.

"It's perfect. You wanna hear about that? About me being fucked by one of my lads?" John asked, dumbfounded because it was a rather common request and he'd thought Sherlock would be after something darker.

Sherlock nodded and John sucked on his earlobe, causing him to squirm.

"Imagine how sweaty we'd all be after running around on the pitch. We'd head back to the showers and strip out of our kits and get wet," John murmured, rutting against Sherlock's thigh as he stroked him. 

"Oh, God," Sherlock groaned, head falling back and eyes squeezing shut.

"If you were there, watching, would you want me to top?" John asked. "Would you want me to take control?"

Sherlock nodded and John chuckled against his skin. It was almost too much, having someone touching him while they kissed him, feeling John's hard length against his thigh. He was near overwhelmed and as soon as John noticed he backed off.

"Sherlock?" He murmured. "I'll need real answers. Would you want me to take control?"

Sherlock's mouth felt incredibly dry and he thought it was rather unfair to make him form words when his cock was so hard and he was so close to coming and he wondered absently if this was what it felt like to not be a genius.

"Please take control," he managed weakly.

"Good boy," John soothed, stroking him faster and noticing when slight twitches of the hips turned to desperate thrusts. "You'd love to watch me bend one of them over, wouldn't you? Watch me clean them and then stick my cock up them. Watch me hold them down while I filled them over and over again."

"John!" Sherlock shouted, cock pulsing as he started to come.

"Sucking on their necks and fucking them until they couldn't breathe," John continued.

"Oh," Sherlock moaned as his orgasm wracked him.

"Watch me come in them," John added, kissing Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock melted into the bed and John lay beside him. He heard Sherlock mumble but didn't catch what he'd said.

"What's that, sweet boy?" He asked.

"I said," Sherlock began with a deep sigh, "I want your cock in my mouth."

John bit back a moan and covered his face with his hands.

"Please?" Sherlock asked. "You're close, just, just put on a condom and let me suck you a bit."

"Christ, yeah, hand me one," John said, biting down on his lip and stroking himself.

Sherlock did and John rolled onto his back and put it on as Sherlock shifted down the bed and crawled between his legs.

"Have you ever-" John tried.

He was cut off by Sherlock taking the head between his lips and sucking. All the air was knocked out of him and he continued to stroke himself as Sherlock lipped at him. It turned to little kitten licks before going back to sucking and it was all rather inelegant but God, was it good. Sherlock had been right about John being close, though, so he didn't last but fifteen seconds.

"I'm, oh, fuck, I'm coming," John grunted out before doing exactly that.

Sherlock mouthed at him until he slumped to the bed and then removed his own condom and lay next to John waiting for him to remove his.

"I can't move just yet," John said weakly. "Feel like I've been hit by a train."

"That awful?" Sherlock said facetiously.

John laughed and pulled the condom off, sticking it in one of the tissues and tossing it in the bin. When he lay back down he pulled Sherlock to his chest and sighed happily.

"Are you going back to sleep now?" Sherlock whispered.

"Yeah, for a bit," John admitted. "And you were brilliant, just so you know."

Sherlock relaxed a little and carefully wrapped an arm around John's torso. It had actually gone fairly well, he figured. Surprising, that.


	9. Pathetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is going to hurt, but you know my work so you know it will get better

John was warm. His body heat had lowered a bit while they were doing what they'd been doing (Sherlock winced while trying to think of a word to describe it. He wasn't sure if buggering was it because neither of them had...well, he wasn't sure. Every other word made him a bit queasy in a way that reminded him glaringly of pubescent nights spent looking at pictures of his school's football team and jerking himself as roughly and as quietly as his body would allow.) but now, as he drifted in sleep once more it slowly worked its way to his previous space-heater-like temperature. 

Sherlock needed to stretch and had an itch he couldn't scratch and he was getting a bit towards needing to use the loo but he couldn't seem to pull himself away. It was like when he was a boy and Redbeard would fall asleep across his lap, sealing his fate for the next hour in the least.

'I have a boyfriend,' he thought, feeling John's side expand beneath his fingers.

And that was strange. He'd never had a boyfriend. Not because he was antisocial and didn't appreciate the male form, his sociopathic-asexual persona was completely put on after all. He'd liked plenty of boys but had found that wanting to sleep with them and aching for their attention meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. He'd required quite a bit more coddling before getting down to business than any of his previous school mates wanted to deal with.

"You're so pathetic," a 'friend' had told him in uni when he expressed his preference to being held over being fucked.

That, incidentally, became how he saw himself. People don't seem to know the effects of their words. 

It was bad enough being gay but his vigorous personal hygiene and the fact that (after giving in and working for Mycroft for two and a half years as a bloody spy) he preferred a finely tailored suit to a pair of denims and a jumper put him far enough in the 'poofter' category that a great deal of men seemed to be put off by him.

What he took from that was that he should push down everything he considered to be uniquely him and try for something more mainstream. After enough blow he could handle being unkempt and practically living in a track suit but then everything he actually liked about himself was gone.

It was a horrid tightrope walk that always seemed to end with him on the ground and clutching his kidneys.

He was one year sober. Graduating from uni early and ending up one of the youngest MI6 agents should have been enough to make him not only happy but fairly desirable. What it made him instead was incredibly miserable. Mycroft told him he'd get over the gray morality of government work and that had been frightening. He didn't want to wake up one day and not really care if he was the baddie. 

So he fucked up. He fucked up royally. You don't quit MI6, after all, you retire many years after joining or you get sacked. He figured sacked would be the way to go as it would insure no one would want him as the face of the crown, clandestine or not, after that and at the time all he wanted was to be left alone.

And it worked pretty well. It turns out that you can only buy so much cocaine off your marks before someone notices. At first the cocaine only made him better. That was something that he was quite confused about. Not that the compound helped him think but that he stopped caring for a while whether or not he was killing people who deserved it, just as his brother had said. But William Sherlock Scott Holmes had never been one to do anything in halves and as soon as he had a taste for cocaine his plan to get himself discretely made redundant turned into his plan to do as much coke as humanly possible on the crown's dime.

The heroin was probably what tipped it over, though. He needed the heroin to come down from the, let's be honest, massive amounts of cocaine and the heroin addict lifestyle clashes with government work in the way the cocaine lifestyle seemed to gel. Ending up passed out and high as bleeding hell in a penthouse in Dubai is very different than ending up passed out and high as bleeding hell in an alley in Dubai.

He managed to get his addiction under control on his third stay in rehab and have enough money left over to rest comfortably on his anemic laurels for the next year before finding something he really cared about doing. 

That was science, of course. Science had always been his true mistress. Even while drugged and hunting men across the globe he longed to be back in a lab dissecting one bit of detritus or another. So, after he'd put on a bit of weight and had managed to get rid of the vitamin drips and eventually the live in nurse (nanny) he went about reacquainting himself with his lost love.

Using deduction, and therefore science, to hunt down baddies meant he got to pick and choose who he went after and doing it with his own name meant he was able to deal a whole lot less with Mycroft. So thescienceofdeduction was created and with it his new persona: aloof sociopath asexual with money to burn.

He'd only just managed to make himself appear trustworthy to Lestrade that last year, God knew the others didn't trust him, and he'd finally managed to completely shut off the side of him that yearned for companionship and affection.

Okay, that last bit was bollocks apparently but he was doing fairly well for himself. And now there was John.

His stomach lurched. John wouldn't last. John was a fit, blond med student and he was a pasty, temperamental creep. John would find something better and it would probably come in the form of a trophy wife with perfect hair and the ability to pop out at least one boy to carry on the family name. John would be a famous surgeon with a matching set of Mercedes and monogrammed towels and, dear god, a penthouse in Dubai.

Just as Sherlock was seriously considering giving his brother a call John started to wake, eyelashes fluttering and voice coming back to him from sleep.

"How long was I out?" He asked.

"Two-hours-sixteen-minutes-thirty-three-seconds," Sherlock spit.

John chuckled and buried his face in Sherlock's pyjama shirt. He breathed the genius in and settled there against him. "Were you counting?" He asked.

"Apparently," Sherlock said, disgusted by the sound of his own voice.

'You can't love someone unless you love yourself first,' his mother's voice chirped in his head.

"Have you got anything in for breakfast?" John asked, not noticing the shiver that went through Sherlock at the remembrance of his last conversation with his mother.

"Probably not," Sherlock replied. "But Mrs H will have scones and eggs at the least."

"Maid?" John asked, remembering a woman he'd seen tidying up in the background several times during Skype conversations. 

"Landlady," Sherlock corrected. 

"Do you want the first shower?" John asked.

Sherlock buried his face in the pillow and John chuckled and got out of bed. Leaving Sherlock for what the genius suspected would not be he last time. Pathetic.


	10. Temper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a rough time at the Met and John meets a stranger after school that gets his blood boiling.

Sherlock went down to Mrs Hudson's to borrow some eggs, cheese and milk and came back upstairs to start frying them up while John took a shower. They ate together, Sherlock managing a few bites, and John said goodbye and promised he would keep his mobile on him if Sherlock needed to text when he went into the Met later that day. He knew it would be stressful.

Sherlock showered once he was gone and put on what he considered to be his best suit. John had kissed him when he'd left and he could swear Sherlock still felt the warmth on his lips. He'd also promised they'd see each other soon. Sherlock already felt incredibly alone in John's absence. That was strange because he was used to being alone and really didn't mind. It was something he'd picked up after late nights writing code and solo missions at MI6. He worked well alone.

This wasn't work though, he reminded himself. It hadn't occurred to him that he was lonely until John came along and filled the space not crammed full of work knowledge with silly things like the colour of the hairs on his legs and the way he listened patiently no matter how long Sherlock went on.

That last bit was the exact reason he didn't want to call John's personal number to talk about cases and why he'd made the appointment the last time. He thought somehow that John would be sick of him talking if he wasn't getting paid. Surely it was part of the job and he knew for a fact the the disjointed way he spoke when deep in a case was hard to follow. He would bore John and John would leave. That couldn't happen.

He caught a cab and made his way to the Met for a day of boredom and idiocy.

_____

John caught himself thinking of Sherlock the whole day and hating the fact that he never texted. Maybe things had gone too far that morning. He didn't like the idea that he'd somehow pushed Sherlock but he knew he was more comfortable with all that than Sherlock was. 

He shoved aside the thought that he'd done something wrong and tried to focus on his school work. If he wasn't going to pay attention he might as well have stayed in bed.

...In Sherlock's bed. In the warm space next to the man he was falling for so surely that he couldn't even deny it to himself. God, Sherlock had smelled good. And tasted good. And hell, he'd felt spectacular.

And John wasn't paying attention to class anymore. Bloody hell.

_____

"You can't tell the judge that the suspect was an idiot for leaving traces of cat fur behind," Lestrade said, head bowed.

"But-" Sherlock tried, completely ignoring the court coach across from him.

"No. I don't care how true it is and I don't care how much you think it makes you see even more clever, you simply won't say it," Lestrade interrupted. "Now maybe if you'll actually listen to the woman I can get back to my work."

"I don't see why I should have to suffer through this," Sherlock said under his breath, hands in his pockets and speaking in the direction of his lap.

"It's part of the job. I know it's not as glamorous as running around like a madman but it's just as important," Lestrade replied.

"Bureaucracy will be the death of me!" Sherlock shouted, letting his head fall to the table.

"Alright, drama queen, get it all out. Maybe if you can get through another hour of this I'll let you have a break and your boyfriend can bring you a sandwich or something," Lestrade said flatly.

"He's in class," Sherlock replied. "Wait, how did you know John was my boyfriend?"

"What do you mean he's in class? Oh, Christ, Sherlock! Don't tell me he's not really a doctor!" Lestrade said, despair leaking into his voice.

"Fine, I won't tell you," Sherlock drawled sardonically.

"Give us the room," Lestrade said to the coach.

She nodded and left the room with a disgusted look directed at Sherlock's back.

"You can't keep doing this," Lestrade said in a gentle voice that made Sherlock want to scream. "I'm taking a huge chance letting you help out around here. You can't keep lying to me."

"He's third year," Sherlock said dismissively. "He'll be a doctor before you'll be detective inspector."

"Do you seriously not see what you're doing? This kind of shite will get me made redundant, not you," Lestrade responded.

"Then maybe you shouldn't let me on crime scenes if I'm such a liability," Sherlock spit.

Lestrade sighed and took a seat across from him. "You keep acting like your word isn't worth anything and it won't be. You're better than this. Maybe this was too much to ask. Maybe I shouldn't have suggested you go on the stand."

"I can do it," Sherlock said quietly.

Lestrade looked up and rested his hand over Sherlock's briefly. Sherlock pulled away and Lestrade cleared his throat. He'd always felt protective of the kid, well man, and he hated when it came out.

"Go for a walk or get a coffee or something," Lestrade said softly. "Then come back and prove me wrong."

Sherlock continued to look at the ground until Lestrade had left and then got up and stormed from the room in a fashion he hoped made him look more in control than he felt.

_____

That night, as John was leaving school, a black sedan pulled up next to him and a tall man in a fine suit got out. John looked over his shoulder to see who he was there for when the man spoke.

"You don't seem the type to settle down. How many girlfriends have you had in the last three years?" The man asked, the non-sequitur throwing John.

"I'm sorry, are you speaking to me?" John asked.

"You've known Sherlock Holmes for several months now and he's buying you quite fancy gifts. I'm simply wondering what type of arrangement you have going. A boy of your...talents shouldn't be counting out the attentions of others, surely," the man purred, prowling closer.

"Sorry, do I know you? And how do you know Sherlock?" John asked, quite angry at the implication.

"I'm an interested party. I could be more interested if you'd like. I can do more for you than he can. What would you like for your troubles? A flat in central London? A car?" The man asked, eyebrow raised.

"Watch your bloody mouth. I'm not like that, it's not like that," John said, chest puffing out, "and I have half a mind to knock your teeth out."

"So you're not a prostitute, yet you met an older man through a sex line and are now accepting gifts and affection in exchange for what, exactly?" 

John managed to catch the man off guard with a quick right hook. He broke the bastard's lip open and blood trickled to his chin.

"Ah, bit of a temper. That's all well. I'm sure I'll be seeing you around," the man said with a false smile that showed the blood on his teeth before pulling out his pocket square and dabbing at his mouth as he re-entered the sedan.

John kicked the tire as he drove away and pulled out his mobile.


	11. Oh, Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter for you. Might write more later today.

Sherlock didn't answer because for once he was actually paying attention to the coach, well, as much as he could manage, and Lestrade had confiscated his mobile from him an hour before. John pressed the button to ring off a bit more roughly than necessary and stuffed the mobile back in his pocket. He raised his hand to hail a cab and gave them the address.

_____

"Detective Lestrade," John barked as he walked through the doors.

A small man at the front picked up an intercom receiver and Lestrade came to the front with a frown on his face. The frown disappeared for a second, he did like John after all, and then returned. John, who was not a doctor but rather a med school student. John who had let Sherlock lie to a police officer for him.

"He's in with the coach," Lestrade said to John as he neared. "Has about an hour left."

John's jaw clenched and Lestrade thought of all the times Sherlock had caused that exact reaction in himself and took pity.

"I've got a break. Want to get coffee?" He asked. John looked at him suspiciously and he added, "I know you're dating Sherlock."

John licked his lips and nodded and Lestrade led the way to a small coffee shop down the road. It wasn't very full, what with the late hour, but there were still three or four people John was not sure he wanted overhearing their conversation. They both ordered and took a seat near the back, as far away from everyone else as possible.

"What has Sherlock done now?" Lestrade asked once they were settled in.

John scrunched up his nose in confusion and then shook his head. "Nothing. It's nothing to do with him," and then, after thinking, "as far as I can tell."

"What is it, then?" Lestrade asked. "You looked rather high strung. School?"

John's voice caught in his throat at that and Lestrade just rolled his eyes in acknowledgment. Yes, papa bear knew of his lie.

"Sorry about that. He just said it and, I don't know, I didn't know you so-" John said, exasperation making him sag a bit in his seat.

"Well, now you do, so you've no excuse to lie. What's going on?" Lestrade interjected.

"Off the record?" John asked, massaging his knuckles. Lestrade nodded and took a sip of his coffee so John went on. "I was approached by someone that knows Sherlock, well, I think he does. Was a real prick."

"Ginger in a posh suit?" Lestrade asked, hoping the smile he felt coming wouldn't show itself.

John gawped. "How did you know?"

"That's Sherlock's brother. He didn't try to kidnap you, did he?" Lestrade answered calmly, the sentence quite a bit less reassuring than he seemed to think.

"No, he tried to hire me. He thinks I'm a prostitute," John said, grinding his teeth.

Lestrade snorted and apologised. "And you hit him?"

John looked aside.

"Oh, I wish I could've. He somehow got my cab redirected and I ended up in an abandoned building like in a Bond film. Arsehole," Lestrade explained. (What Lestrade didn't say was how he'd pushed the man up against the wall and threatened him within an inch of his life. That and the fact that it had left him hard.) "Try to scare you off, did he?"

John thought about the conversation and nodded. "Suppose that's what it was. In retrospect, of course. Felt like something different while it was happening. So he's Sherlock's brother?"

"Mmm," Lestrade confirmed. "Mycroft Holmes. Pushy bloke. Never can seem to keep his nose out of his brother's business. Or pleasure, as it were."

"Sherlock told you we're dating?" John asked at that.

Lestrade gave him a tired look. "I'm not a detective for nothing."

"Yeah," John said, finally taking a sip of his coffee and relaxing a bit. "Sorry."

Lestrade shrugged and sat back in his seat. "Sherlock's a bit fragile, I think. He's been through a lot. I hope you-"

"Christ, are you acting-brother when that prat's not around?" John interrupted.

Lestrade smiled crookedly and ran a hand through his hair. "Just looking out for the kid. He's a mess and I need him to be less of one, not more."

"Yeah, well, I won't fuck him over, if that's what you're suggesting," John replied. "I like him. A lot."

Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed and he nodded. "Make sure you tell him, yeah?"

John felt his cheeks go a bit pink and nodded back.

_____

After they were done with their coffee Lestrade walked John back to the Met and had him wait near the front while he went to get Sherlock. The genius was thrilled to get his mobile back and be excused for the evening. He was more thrilled when he found John waiting for him.

"John," he said, looking his counterpart over. His eyes stilled of John's left hand and then darted up. "Come along," he said, ushering John out of he building.

John waved a goodbye to Lestrade over his shoulder and went with Sherlock to the kerb to hail a cab. Once they were in Sherlock turned to John with a concerned face.

"Who did you hit? Was it Anderson? That man's an idiot, I wouldn't blame you," he said quietly, acting as if the cabbie might be a spy.

"Actually," John said, clearing his throat, "it was your brother."

Sherlock's eyes flew wide and then a manic smile took over his slight pout. "Tell. Me. All. The. Details," he demanded.

John chuckled at his enthusiasm and leaned in to kiss him.


	12. God, That Was...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get back to Sherlock's. Porn, just porn. Plot is for people who don't think about cock as much as I do.

They made it back to Sherlock's and up the stairs before Sherlock began unbuttoning John's shirt. He was a frenzy of elbows and long fingers as he slammed the door behind them with his hip and sucked at John's neck in a way that put to bed, quite violently, his hesitance before. It was as if John had clicked a switch on his libido and he forgot to be nervous.

"I should hit your brother more often," John said breathlessly, eyes closing of their own accord.

Sherlock growled and bit down on John's neck and John cursed and pushed him back.

"Bed," he grunted, hair sticking up on the left where Sherlock had been gripping it.

Sherlock nodded, nostrils flaring, and pulled John into the sitting room and then down the hall. By the time they hit the bed they were both completely naked, only the lack of light preserving their dignity, with a trail of clothes left behind. 

John grunted again when Sherlock climbed atop him and rolled his hips. It was hot and dirty and happening so fast that all of his practiced confidence and control was out the window and for the first time in a very long while he was left just feeling. And, God, what a relief it was to feel.

"Condoms," he said weakly as something in his brain managed to cut through the fog.

Sherlock made an incredibly unhappy sound but crawled so he could go through his bedside drawer. Things were tossed left and right until he managed to take two condoms from the box he'd only thought to buy a week prior, throwing one at an amused John, and grab the lube.

"I want you to fuck me," he said, finally back on top of John and writhing. 

"Jesus," John exclaimed, hurriedly putting on the condom as Sherlock's thighs moved up and up again. "You're sure?"

"Fuck me like you hit him," Sherlock demanded, pouring lube into his hand and snaking wet fingers between his shaking legs.

"Holy fucking hell," John sighed, unsure he'd ever felt something as purely hedonistic before.

"Say yes," Sherlock said, eyes clenched closed. "Say yes."

"Yes, Christ, yes. Of course," John replied, hands going to grip Sherlock's thighs and thumbs rubbing soft circles.

Sherlock continued to ready himself, fingers pushing and probing until his hole gaped wetly. When he'd managed three fingers with ease he reached out and gripped John's cock, causing the man to yelp and thrust his hips into the slick channel of his fist.

"Still," Sherlock hissed, a hand pressing John's hip back into the bed as he positioned himself.

It was utterly powerful and one hundred percent sure and John did just as he was asked even as his body screamed at him to just get on with it already. 

Then Sherlock sank down and all thoughts were gone. It was a rather good thing Sherlock managed all that on his own because John simply wouldn't have had the wherewithal to do a damn thing constructive as the heat was squeezing so perfectly around him.

"Oh, oh, oh," Sherlock murmured as he moved his hips in slow circles.

John blinked his eyes open and took hold of his partners hips and held him. Sherlock, head lolling back and mouth open, finally managed to take all of John. John felt him adjusting, tight passage twitching as the rest of him stilled, and took deep lungfulls of air.

"Jesus," he sighed, "Jesus, you're gorgeous."

Sherlock gave a weak laugh and rose slightly on strong thighs. When he lowered himself again John let out a deep moan. Sherlock did it again, this time letting a bit more of John's cock draw out before settling back down with it as deep as it could go. His voice was pinched as he let out little panting, mewling noises and set into a rhythm.

"Move," he commanded.

John would have laughed at how their roles had surprisingly switched if he weren't so eager to do just that. He thrust gently and Sherlock gave out a little 'ha' sound and nodded.

"Again," Sherlock panted.

John rolled his hips and then snapped up.

"A-a-again," Sherlock said shakily.

John bit his lip and thrust.

"Tell me," Sherlock murmured as he started bouncing in earnest.

"What?" John asked, confused and trying to time his thrusts.

"Tell me how you hit him," Sherlock said.

John chuckled and groaned and licked his lips. "He suggested I was with you because of the gifts...suggested I was a prostitute."

"Bastard!" Sherlock exclaimed, rolling his hips and grunting as John entered him over and over again.

"So I punched him," John said, illustrating with a particularly rough thrust.

"Oh, God," Sherlock managed. "Yes."

John gripped Sherlock's hips tighter and rolled them over.

"Yes, John, yes," Sherlock screamed.

John reached up to grip Sherlock's curls and fucked into him with everything he had left. Sherlock's voice grew weak and he gripped his cock and started to pull at it.

"That's it," John said, fucking him thoroughly. "You like that? You like it when I'm rough?"

"Yes John," Sherlock panted. "Please, please."

"Come on, then," John pushed. "Come for me."

Just as he said it Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and his body clenched and he started to come. John pulled out until Sherlock's arsehole was milking the head of his cock and let himself fall into the most spectacular orgasm he'd had in his life.

"John," Sherlock managed to say weakly after John had collapsed on top of him.

"Mmm," John said, rolling off, "yeah, sorry."

"I think you've broken my legs," Sherlock said, chuckling deep in his chest. "They've gone all wobbly."

John started laughing with him. "If that's the case I reckon you've broken my cock."

They laughed harder and John sighed and rolled onto his side, pulling at Sherlock's neck and leaning in to kiss him. The kiss was soft and Sherlock felt the tightness in his chest that he now associated with John get worse and he wanted so badly to tell him how much unbearable fondness he felt. When they pulled apart he reached to the bedside table for some tissues and they both got rid of their condoms and settled more comfortably among the sheets.

"God, that was..." John said, smile wide.

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock agreed.

"I didn't actually hurt you, did I?" John asked, looking into Sherlock's eyes.

"No, of course not," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Alright, I just thought that-" John tried.

"You thought that since I was nervous when we first...that I'd never had anything up my arse before," Sherlock interrupted.

John licked his lips and smiled, the bastard really was a genius. "Yeah, that's about right."

"Yes, well, you don't have to be with another person to do that sort of thing," Sherlock added.

"You got really turned on by me hitting your brother," John said, stating the obvious.

"I think I'd get turned on no matter who you hit, but with him I know it was justified," Sherlock replied.

"You don't...I mean, you didn't give me the gifts-" John tried, voice suddenly as tight as his brow.

"To get you into bed? No," Sherlock returned, and then, more slowly, "that isn't why you-"

"God, no," John barked. "I'm with you because you're brilliant and sexy and funny as hell."

"You think I'm sexy?" Sherlock asked shyly, something that should have been difficult for someone who'd so recently been giving out commands while impaling themselves on a cock.

"Cor, yes," John said, pulling Sherlock to his chest and kissing his neck.

Sherlock melted against John's mouth and they lay there in each other's arms for a long while before either had the energy to move.


	13. Trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some changes in John and Sherlock's lives and finally the trial!

John ended up spending almost every night that month at Sherlock's, even the ones when Sherlock was out on a case and didn't come home till half three, and managed to move half his wardrobe in. Mrs Hudson didn't mind at all because Sherlock was always in a better mood when John was around and the young man complimented her cooking. That was probably why John didn't notice when his roommate's relationship turned serious and he started doing the same.

Mike left a note for John tacked to his door that John found while rushing between Sherlock's and school.

'John,

I'm thinking of moving in with Tara. I'll give you till the end of next month to find someone else to room with you if you need it.

Mike'

That threw a wrench in things. John was barely able to afford half of the rent and he'd taken on less shifts on the phone line since he'd been spending time with Sherlock. It simply didn't feel right to be helping some bloke get off with Sherlock in the flat and seemed even worse in his absence. In fact, he was on the verge of losing the job altogether as finals loomed and he let his boss know he'd need two weeks off. And now he'd be homeless.

He started looking for cheap bedsits that night when he was back in Sherlock's flat after his shift at A&E. Sherlock, ever the information sponge, noticed something was off the second he got there but was waiting for some other sign to see what it was. 

The realty section was never an interest to John. He had no reason to be looking at flats...unless.

"Mike's moving in with his girlfriend," he said, stooping to peer over John's shoulder at what he was circling in red.

John sighed deeply. Of course he would notice. "I'm looking for a bedsit. Doesn't matter if it's horrid, I spend most of my time here anyhow."

"Good point. We'll move your things in tomorrow," Sherlock said as he walked towards the kitchen to make them both tea.

John's head popped up at that and he looked over his shoulder. "Sorry?"

"I said we'll move your things tomorrow. Honestly, as a prospective Doctor you should really work on your listening skills," Sherlock replied.

John frowned, something in him seeing this as a handout. "You know, you really have to ask me to move in before you start planning to move me in," he said, voice tight.

"Will you move in with me?" Sherlock asked, looking for all the world like it was the most boring sentence he'd ever uttered.

"No," John said quickly. "I can afford a bedsit without any help. This is your flat. I spend enough time here."

"My point exactly," Sherlock said, exasperated. "There's no reason for you to pay some slum lord rent when you spend all your time here."

"I'm not going to take advantage," John said stiffly. "You already pay for most of my food."

"Then don't," Sherlock said easily. "Whatever you were going to pay you can give to Mrs Hudson. I hardly need you to split rent and you won't be taking up any more room."

John chewed his bottom lip and tried to think of a way out of it. It wasn't that he didn't want to, it was that he really felt like he was out of line.

Sherlock, of bloody course, took this the wrong way, all but wilting where he stood in front of the electric kettle. "Of course if you don't want to I would understand. I can be rather much at times. Well, always. I suppose I'd be a rubbish-"

"For Christ's sake, yes. I'll move in," John said, fond smile wiping away his frown as he stood to kiss Sherlock on he lips. "Tomorrow, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, lips still in a pout, and John took him in his arms.

"I'm paying as much as I can manage, though," John said. "And some of the groceries."

"Whatever you'd like," Sherlock whispered, and with that it was settled.

_____

It was another month until the trial was ready to be held and Sherlock was as prepared as he could be. Which was somewhat of an amalgamation of cockiness, anticipation, and dread. John was partway through finals and even when he was home he wasn't really there. His life was filled with textbooks and research papers and anxiety. In short, they were a mess. 

"Oh, boys. When was the last time you ate?" Mrs Hudson asked one Saturday after finding the both of them studying on the floor in the middle of the sitting room, surrounded by books and papers.

Neither looked up so she went downstairs to make a plate of meats and cheeses and breads. They honestly never did very good at taking care of themselves, though taking care of each other seemed to come more easily. Right then it was like when the whole house had the flu and no one could get out of bed. They were hopeless.

She managed to get the plate into the middle of the room without tripping and hurting her hip and John finally looked up and thanked her. The poor boy looked pale and the deep circles under his eyes spoke of sleep deprivation.

_____

They made it through the next week on bits of food that Mrs Hudson kept threatening to stop bringing up but by the time the trial was partway through and Sherlock was called to the stand his suits were fitting a bit looser and John was worried for his sallow complexion.

"I'm coming with you," John said, slipping into the new shooting jacket that he had halfheartedly attempted to keep Sherlock from purchasing, it was two hundred pounds, for god's sake.

"You don't have to. I can do this on my own," Sherlock said in the way that told John he was pretending to be strong.

"I know you can, git, but I'm coming with you," John said, going and standing next to Sherlock as he looked at himself in the mirror and buttoned up his shirt.

Sherlock breathed deeply and looked John in the eyes through the mirror. John. His rock. He swallowed and nodded once before doing up his trousers, and slipped on a tie.

_____

Sherlock had given John his bank card but he wasn't on the account. When the guard at the desk told him Sherlock would have to spend the night in a cell and insinuated that maybe someone would teach him some manners in there John somehow managed a Glasgow kiss without even meaning to. It turned out that intent didn't excuse action and within minutes he was put in the cell with Sherlock.

"I'm in for contempt of court," Sherlock said with a wry smile. "How about you."

John rolled his eyes and slid onto the bench next to Sherlock defeatedly. "What do you think?"

"Tried to get me out by force?" Sherlock asked, John not seeing the fond smile as he was looking straight ahead.

"Mmm," John replied. "Something like that."

_____

Three hours later Mycroft came to pay bond. John figured it had more to do with seeing them behind bars and smirking at him than easing their discomfort and refused to thank him. While Sherlock was getting his things Mycroft spoke in his usual haughty manner.

"Your first time in a detention cell?" He asked, as though suspecting not.

"Save me the victory lap, would you?" John said flatly.

"Do you intend on making this a habit?" Mycroft pressed.

"I was sticking up for him," John replied, guilt at his actions making his stomach turn.

"Try doing it with a bit less gusto next time," Mycroft replied.

John had some choice words picked out but Sherlock walked past and he hurried to catch up, Mycroft's long stride pacing him easily.

"Don't you have something to say to me, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

"Thank you for using my own money to get me out of jail after waiting three hours even though you knew about the same time I did that I'd be stuck in this horrid place," Sherlock spit.

Mycroft smiled, satisfied, and nodded "You're welcome."

Sherlock and John refused the offered ride home in Mycroft's spookily dark sedan and instead hailed a cab. Sherlock slumped against John's side on the way and John snorted and wrapped his arms around him.

"I can't believe you called the solicitor an idiot," John murmured into Sherlock's hair.

"You head-butted a guard," Sherlock shot back.

"Yeah, well, I guess we're both trash," John said, rubbing circles in Sherlock's skin right behind his ear and scratching absently at his curls.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, happy as ever to be in John's arms. "Let's not tell Mrs Hudson."

John chuckled and kissed him on the crown of his head. That was about as close to an admission of guilt as he'd get and he knew it.


	14. It's Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally walks in on John doing his job. It goes about as well as you would expect.

The first time Sherlock walked in on John working the sex line he simply stood in the doorway, in shock, eyes blinking rapidly, for several minutes. He thought John was having sex with someone in their bedroom. Once the rage had burst through the initial surprise he turned the corner, tears pricking his eyes, to find John sat at the table reading the newspaper and sipping tea.

The rage didn't go away. Instead it turned to dread, heavy in his stomach and nearly crippling. John hadn't seen him so he stayed where he was, listening to John speak to some random person in the same way he spoke to him. It was disgusting.

"Does that feel good, hmm?" John asked in a breathy voice, head pressing his mobile between shoulder and ear. "Tell me, tell me how it feels."

The way John lazily turned the page of the newspaper was in stark contrast to the way he sounded. Sherlock swallowed roughly and turned to leave. John saw him and tried to get his attention by tossing a hand towel at him. It hit him in the back and he turned slowly in place, the look of betrayal on his face making John's grin disappear.

John had been afraid of this. He knew it would be awkward but what he saw in Sherlock's eyes and trembling bottom lip was so far worse than he'd imagined that he forgot the man on the phone for a moment. When he picked the conversation back up his voice was pinched. He felt like he was going to be sick as Sherlock turned and left.

_____

Sherlock didn't come home until four that morning and slept on the sofa. When John woke to an empty bed he worried that the man hadn't come home at all. He'd buggered everything up.

Sherlock was awake and sipping tea from his chair when John came out of the loo a bit later. He didn't look up.

"I suppose we need to talk about this," John said, a sentence he dreaded more than any other.

He didn't talk about things. He never had. He let things be and hoped for the best because talking about them was too painful. For Christ's sake, he'd never even mentioned Harry's drinking even though it was tearing his family apart.

"I don't know if there's anything to talk about," Sherlock replied. "You were simply doing your job. It's fine."

John sat across from him and rubbed the back of his neck, the tension there already threatening to turn into intense pain. 

"You don't look like it's fine," he said, noting the way Sherlock's body was practically buzzing with agitation.

"I said it's fine so it's fine," Sherlock replied angrily. "You're simply incredibly good at your job. You did tell me, after all."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" John bit back, his notorious anger flaring up.

Sherlock slammed his tea on the table, some of it sloshing over the edge of the cup at the rough treatment, and finally looked John in the eye. "You're VERY convincing," he said. "I'd almost believe you were enjoying yourself. You did convince me, after all."

John clenched his fists and tilted his head to the side. "I'm going to ask you again, what the HELL do you mean by that?"

Instead of getting an angry response Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and tears welled up and John suddenly knew that he'd hurt the man, the man he was realising he loved, very badly. He got from his seat and went to pull Sherlock into his arms.

"Bloody hell," he murmured. "It's just a job."

"Yes, a job you did quite well with me," Sherlock whimpered.

John dropped to his knees so Sherlock couldn't avoid his gaze. "It was never a job with you. I did that because I wanted to. I wanted YOU. It was never a job."

Sherlock swallowed and breathed in weakly and John pulled him down for a kiss. When they pulled apart Sherlock leaned forward to rest his head on John's shoulder, body bent in half, and John ran his hands through his curls.

_____

John quit that day. He wasn't sure how he'd pay for rent and was about to start looking for another job that night over dinner, laptop pulled out and tapping away slowly, when Sherlock spoke up.

"I'm looking to fill the position of assistant," Sherlock said.

John, often slow on the uptake, nodded and felt like his heart was being crushed. He'd thought he was doing a fairly good job at being Sherlock's assistant but he knew he wasn't around most of the time and rarely got to go to crime scenes.

"That's...that's a good idea," he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let his head fall back, speaking to the ceiling in exasperation, "I mean you, John."

"Oh, oh," John said.

"You're already doing a great deal of work for me and I know you quit your job," Sherlock explained. "It's only right that I start paying you."

John grinned but shook his head, "I can't take money from you."

"You can and you will," Sherlock replied, brokering no argument.

"Pushy," John said, licking his lips.

"Yes, well, you knew that from the beginning," Sherlock said.

_____

When John went to get into bed that night he found a small box on his pillow. He opened it and pulled out a pair of silk socks in a dark blue. He grinned and sat to slip them on, tossing his old socks into the laundry basket.

"They're gorgeous," he said, lips curling.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway watching with bruising intent.

John wiggled his toes and didn't miss the shiver that went through Sherlock. He stood slowly and went to push Sherlock against the door frame, lifting up on his toes and kissing the man's neck as his hands gripped Sherlock's hips. Sherlock's eyes never left his feet.

"Should we go have a seat?" He asked. "Like the first time?"

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded, following John into the sitting room and taking his seat as he pushed the other chair closer.

"That's better," John said as he sat, foot going to rest between Sherlock's legs, not touching him yet, "isn't it?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied breathily, eyes flitting between John's feet as he wriggled in the chair.

John slid down in his seat and let his foot push gently into the crotch of Sherlock's pyjama trousers, wiggling his toes as Sherlock breathed out tightly and his bum lifted off the chair to seek friction.

"Sherlock," he purred.

Sherlock finally looked up and his eyes were already drifting closed. "Yes, John," he panted.

"I love my new socks," John said, grin turning predatory and toes curling, "Do you think they suit me?"

"Yes," Sherlock squeaked.

"Full sentence, love," John pressed.

"Yes, John, the socks suit you," Sherlock replied.

John licked his lips and started to undo the zip of his denims. "Good boy," he murmured, stroking Sherlock's burgeoning erection as he pressed a hand to his own. "Such a good boy for picking out such handsome socks for me."

Sherlock moaned and let his head fall back, hand going to John's socked foot and thumb rubbing gentle circles into the soft fabric.

"Should I take it out?" John asked, rubbing his foot from side to side teasingly.

"Yes," Sherlock groaned, "please. Please, John."

John bit his bottom lip and pulled his cock out, stroking it and letting his own head loll back. Sherlock shifted and worked hard to lift his head and look down at John's foot as he gripped it tighter and thrust up against it.

"That's it, gorgeous," John said, stroking his own cock with growing urgency. "Take it. Do what you like."

Sherlock moaned and rolled his hips and started to shiver as he thrust up over and over again, chasing a quickly approaching orgasm. "Tell me," he begged.

"I love them," John said. "They're gorgeous and soft and they feel good. Don't they feel good?"

"Good," Sherlock grunted. "So good. So good, John. Oh, God, oh."

"Do it," John growled, feeling arousal pool in his stomach and focusing his strokes on the head of his prick. 

Sherlock made a weak sound and keened and started to come, hips thrusting out of rhythm and against his own will. John cursed and started to come as well, head falling and chin pressing against his chest as he drew in shaking breaths and milked his orgasm slowly.

"Clever boy," he panted as Sherlock finally let go of his foot. "My brilliant boy."

Sherlock hummed in agreement and gathered up the remaining bit of his strength to slide from the chair and kneel with his head resting on John's thigh. They stayed like that for a long while, John running his hand through Sherlock's curls as the taller man dozed against him, before finally going for a short shower and heading to bed. John made sure to put the socks back on and they both slept very well, and all was right again.


	15. Not For A Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's our epilogue. Thank you to Yarnjunkie for keeping me to my word and talk me through the ending. I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I did.

Sherlock bought John a lot of presents over the years, many pairs of socks included, but there was one in particular that ended in tears. They'd been together just over four years at that point, John finally finishing his schooling and starting in on interning in a small surgery, and were closer than ever. 

"I don't see why you're so upset that Mycroft is getting married," John said, taking his coat off and hanging it by the front door.

"I don't care that he's getting married, it's obviously for show as he'd never stick his-" Sherlock sputtered angrily.

"Don't you dare talk about your brother's-" John interrupted.

"-But he didn't have to tell everyone today! He could've waited a bloody week!" Sherlock finished.

John looked at him, at the way he was wound tight and shaking with real anger. He didn't really hate Mycroft so it was confusing that he was reacting this way. And Anthea, well, Andrea apparently, wasn't so bad either.

"Why would it have been better if he waited a week, Sherlock?" John asked, watching as the man went to bang around in the kitchen under the pretense of tea.

"No reason," Sherlock grumbled.

John followed him and rested a hand on his hip. "Love, you're all out of sorts," he murmured against Sherlock's shoulder, kissing the soft material.

"This was my week," Sherlock all but whined under his breath.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist from behind and pulled him closer, the daft man still in his greatcoat. When he felt something poke into his waist he stilled. Sherlock stood a bit taller, which only caused the small object to press harder against the soft of John's belly.

"What in god's name have you got in your pocket?" John asked, hands moving to get into Sherlock's greatcoat and pull whatever it was out.

When his hand closed around it he squeaked and quickly let go, taking a step back. Sherlock turned slowly and faced John, eyes wide and cheeks flaming red.

"This was my week," he said again, softly.

John barked out a nervous laugh and Sherlock slipped out of his coat, tossing it onto the kitchen table, and pulled a small blue box from his trouser pocket.

"I was going to leave it on your pillow," Sherlock said weakly.

"Oh," John replied, more of an exhale than a word.

"That is...unless you aren't interested," Sherlock replied quickly.

"No..." John stammered. "No. I mean, yes. Yes, I'm, um, interested."

Sherlock sighed heavily and slowly bent to one knee, holding the box in front of him and opening it slowly to reveal a perfect, shiny, gold band.

"John," he said, eyes filled with tears. "You've become quite the staple in my life over the years. I don't know where I would have ended up if I hadn't met you but I do know that wherever it would have been, I'd have been there alone. I've found that not only don't I want to live without you, but that the prospect doesn't even seem real. You keep me happy, you keep me safe, and without you I would continue to be utterly bored."

John had tears streaming down his face at that point and was chewing on his bottom lip and nodding adamantly.

"Shall we continue this?" Sherlock asked. "Indefinitely?"

John grinned and knelt in front of Sherlock, pulling the man into an embrace. "Of course we should, you bloody fool!"

"You forgot the ring," Sherlock said, panting between rough kisses.

"Yes, of course," John said, sitting back on his heels and holding his hand out.

Sherlock slipped the ring on his finger and they both collapsed back into a kiss.

_____

What Sherlock didn't mention to John was the fact that he'd been attempting to propose for almost three months, the ring always being close at hand but the time never seeming right. Mycroft had just got tired of waiting for his younger brother to hop to it and decided he might as well help them along. He was nothing if not a helpful older brother, after all.

_____

They married in a small cathedral near Sherlock's grandparent's estate in Kent and went back to work the next day. They would have gone on honeymoon but there was no better place to be disgustingly in love than in their own flat. They did pay for Mrs Hudson to go on a small holiday but that was only polite for the amount of noise they were going to make.

John became a very good surgeon and managed a successful practice in a small office alongside his consulting detective husband. There was the odd tiff when someone came in requiring a surgery consult only to find their spouse was cheating or their son-in-law was a thief, but that was to be expected.

And the best part? They were never bored. Not for a moment.


End file.
